An Awful Lot of Running to Do
by Vilinye
Summary: The Whovian History of Jemma Simmons and Leo Fitz
1. Transmission Errors

Oh, sure, she'd heard of it. It's practically impossible to grow up in the UK without hearing the occasional 'Doctor Who' joke or seeing the Labour Party drawn as Daleks in the papers, but Simmons wasn't a fan of science fiction. Real science was so much more exciting, so full of applications and potential.

She was finishing up her second dissertation when her mum dragged her out of her room-"you've been holed up for months, I'm not even sure you still know what a conversation is-" and sat her in front of the telly. Brain still full of mitochondria analysises, she barely noticed the swirling title sequence that culminated in the words "Doctor Who."

When it was all over, she had only one question. "What's the bloke with the big ears doing with the plastic arm?"

Her mum huffed something about "longest-running scifi show" and "historic event,' but Simmons ignored her. Best to raid the fridge while they were distracted-no need to let them see how much pop and biscuits she was eating.


	2. Pick a Star

She didn't start classes until after New Year's, but tickets from Heathrow to New York (not to mention all the connecting flights to the middle of nowhere a classified location), were hard to come by in December, so she took a November flight and spent the interlude at a b&b in Connecticut. She spent the first week trying to use adapters for her hairdryer and phone before giving up and buying new ones. At least her laptop wasn't a problem. SHIELD had provided the latest model for her, and the recruiter had hinted there'd be more. "The latest and the best."

She wasn't homesick. She wasn't intimidated. When she was in primary, she'd heard someone call her 'brilliant,' and she spent the next week watching everyone she passed to see if they glowed. Because that was what brilliant meant, didn't it? Bright? Even after she realized that it wasn't quite that literal, she couldn't shake the idea that people should glow, that there should be some way of seeing who could think on her level. With each year, she thought it would get better, but it didn't. In her first university class, she made a causal comment that made the room fall dead silent, because there was no way someone her age could know that. Yes, they all knew it, but they were supposed to know it, they'd taken A-levels and studied for hours to know that.

So had she, but they didn't know that.

Entry requirements: 1 PhD.

Sure, the language was far more formal, but she knew what it meant. Smart people only. Brilliant people. Since accepting, she's dreamed about it-a star that is also a building, with flickering lights like Christmas tree strands going in and out.

God, it sounds cheesy when she put it like that. She's Jemma Simmons, double PhD at an age where most people are taking GCSEs or checking UCAS requirements for uni. She's not going to Hogwarts (yes, she read Harry Potter. Liked it, but that's not the point.) She was even thinking about a career; because as much as everyone praises geniuses, not many want to employ them. Anyway, the point was, she was ready for this. The extra month is just a matter of scheduling. Acclimatizing.

But a massive snowstorm slammed through the state two days before Christmas. It didn't affect her 'plans,' because she didn't have any to begin with, but it means that it's just her and the owners (Mr. and Mrs. Halvorson and their eight-year-old daughter Marie) for Christmas. She wasn't expecting them to invite her over to watch the queen's speech on telly.

"We get BBCA. Honestly, it's no trouble."

Simmons was too polite to explain that she wasn't really interested in the queen's speech, and she'd always wondered what Americans did on Christmas. Eat, as it turned out, and then nap afterwards. Oh, there were a few presents-even a box of chocolates for her-but the Halvorsons weren't the partying sort. She ended up curled on the sofa, reading her copy of Steven Pinkton's How the Brain Works while the Halvorsons napped and Marie played with her new beaded jewelry set.

A few minutes before seven, Marie raced into the room, grabbed the remote, and flipped the channel to BBCA,

"Why the hurry?"

"Doctor Who's on in a few minutes!"

"Who?"

Marie giggled. "Doctor Who, of course. Don't you watch?" The swirling title sequence filled the screen.

Simmons set down her book and watched for a few minutes. "Wait, who's the skinny bloke?"

"That's the Doctor. Rose saved him from the Daleks and then he saved her and he kissed her and he went all glowly and woosh!" Marie waved her hands. "Merry Christmas."

* * *

A spinning Christmas tree? It's so ridiculous she couldn't help laughing. It reminded her of the EastEnder specials her grandma insists on watching.

"Help me," the girl whispered, and the man bolted upright, pointed his little rod-'sonic screwdriver' Marie reminded her-at the tree, and it fell over.

"Remote control. But who's controlling it?"

Okay, that's new. Not 'what's going on' or 'Christmas trees don't attack,' but 'who.' A question that cuts to the relevant issues.

A scientist's question.

Jenna could like this show.

* * *

Notes:

Just in case somebody besides me cares: in our universe, Christmas Invasion didn't air on BBCA till 2007. But the MCU isn't our universe, is it? ;)


	3. Interlude

Among other things in th**e HIGHLY CLASSIFIED TOP SECRE**T manila envelope that SHIELD had hand-delivered to her was a form about lab partners.

In order to encourage interdisciplinary collaboration and cross-campus unity, students are required to complete projects, including but not limited to, procedural studies, statistical analysis, field experiments, and/or original research, with those working in other fields related to but not the same as their area of study or year. To facilitate this endeavor, we request new members complete the following document and return it with related forms via secure lines of communication.

Followed by two pages of multiple-choice questions, and another full page of short-answer questions to be answered on a separate sheet of paper. Simmons had promptly filled it out, waited for the reply, filed it away, and forgotten to bring it with her to her first lab hour. While everyone else was scanning faces or randomly calling names, she circled from table-okay, it's more elaborate than a table, she didn't even know some of the gadgets on it, but that wasn't her first priority at the time-to table, hoping someone will call her name.

Five minutes later, the background noise is beginning to change from "hey, over here," to "PhD in what?"

Ten minutes after that, some groups are debating string theory.

She should have gone to the leader right away, but they never covered how to address the professors-Agent? Professor? Doctor-and she doesn't want to be rude, although the voice in her head (sounding rather like her mum) reminded her that 'being not-confused trumps being rude'. She heard something that might be her name; when she took a step backwards toward it, she tripped over someone else's foot and nearly fell.

"Oh, that's my fault, I'm sorry, really I am, let me help you..." The other person's words all ran together, an apology with a Scottish accent. "I'm Leopald Fitz, but most people call me Fitz, Leo was my dad and..."

She regained her footing. "Jemma Simmons. Are you still looking for your partner?"

Well, not exactly, he'd brought the forms with him and everything, but his flatmate spilled on it, and all he can read is the first name, Jean-oh, Jemma, Jemma, I bet it was Jemma, that makes sense-you haven't found your lab team yet, have you? Well, it must be you, then, or at least it can be you for now, and we can make sure later. And I'm engineering, by the way.


End file.
